Out of Time
by Forever Jake
Summary: Unfinished. Interference from the future leads Frog and Magus on a quest into the past... but Magus' powers are gone!
1. The Professor and the Apprentice

------------------------------ I. The Professor and the Apprentice  
  
Kerrenar moved slowly over the grassy ground, his steps rocky and deliberate. It had all happened so suddenly, his escape had, and were it not for the lingering sunlight, the unwaveringly blue skies, he would not have doubted that his flight had been delusion and nothing more. Perhaps, he thought, this was all hallucinated, perhaps he still was dreaming, escaping into pleasant delirium while his body remained chained beneath the earth. He had had such dreams, once, he remembered, back when his imprisonment had only just begun. Such dreams had not frequented his bed for many years, however, his fevered sleep plagued instead by nightmares not unlike the reality of his internment.  
  
Then, for no plausible reason, it had stopped. One moment, he had been chained to the blank wall, far below the earth's surface, as he had been for so long, the demonic, misshapen fiends which lorded over his prison grinning wickedly at him. The next moment, everything changed. The mutants fell into sudden agony, and then fell silent as quickly as their shrieks had begun, vanishing into the dim air of the cell. The chains which had bound his wrists and ankles were undone, vanishing as well into the presumably thin air, as did the walls and ceiling of the cell. The whole of the chamber was disappearing, then, giving way to the rapidly lightening skies. It was as though the entire world was being taken apart and rebuilt before his disbelieving eyes.  
  
He had clawed his way up the side of the crater which his prison had become, drinking in the impossibly sweet air, the impossibly blue skies and the impossibly green grass. The world had healed, it seemed, from some terrible injury, the darkness and desolace which had covered it converted back to bright and cheery paradise. Then Kerrenar had looked north, towards the dome where he once had lived, the pitiful hovel where he and his master had made their existence.  
  
Dark clouds clustered over the dome, as though it were some unseemly blemish on the otherwise renewed world, some lasting mark which refused to heal, a telling scar of conflict and bad times. Kerrenar's lip had curled, and he had begun to walk, slowly and deliberately, over the grassy plain and towards the dome. Thus it was that he found himself wrapping his claws around the ugly bar across the door and wrenching it open.  
  
He paused, there, looking over his horrid, clawed hands, and then the rest of his wretched form. He was a monster, still; no healing of the world had changed him back. Like the dome, still wrapped in shadows, his wrongness had not been righted. He snarled and stepped through the open doorway, ducking his head to do so.  
  
The lights in the dome had all gone out, only the stale glow of the varying fungal life which clung to the walls illuminating the room. It mattered not; Kerrenar had spent long hours underground. His eyes adjusted quickly, and followed the metal walkway towards the rear of the room. At the end of the walkway, he passed through another open doorway, and into his memories.  
  
This new chamber was at the center of the dome, and it came back to him clearly; it had been his home, once. Here, he and his master, Balthasar, had made their lives. Balthasar, he guessed, was probably long dead, as evidenced by the decay of the structure. Kerrenar's eyes narrowed as he thought of this. He alternately loved and despised his former master, a man who had shown him both infinite patience and infinitesimal respect. Balthasar had treated his apprentice as a child, and worse; a child who would never grow to reach adulthood. Kerrenar was a beloved assistant, but one for whom there was no promise of ever understanding fully what his master had accomplished. He was an Igor, and go-for, a servant – not an heir, or rising peer.  
  
Kerrenar blinked several times, warding off the reverie. Whatever he had thought of Balthasar was a moot point, now, what with the Professor being dead and gone. Kerrenar thought briefly of searching the dome for his body, but opted instead on approaching the aging computer which sat at the rear of the chamber. Whatever had happened to Balthasar, the computer would have a record of it. Kerrenar settled into his familiar stance before the machine, his deformed hands finding the controls. He booted up the machine, expecting the standard array of data to begin streaming over the screen, awaiting his choice of what topic to view.  
  
Instead, the disembodied face of Balthasar appeared. Kerrenar blinked in surprise. The face began to speak.  
  
"Kerrenar," the recording said, "If you are seeing this, I am either deceased, or will be soon. I realize that if I have succeeded in my work here, you may find your way back to this place, and so I have prepared this machine to keep a record of all that has occurred, and why. I must ask that you view carefully what remains here before you act. You will find, I hope, that all has transpired as it must. In any case, I pray that you understand the inherent unpredictability involved with my work, and leave well enough alone."  
  
So that I do not meddle with what is above me, he thought. The recording ended, and he main menu came up. Kerrenar moved through the data, looking over the records of the last years, educating himself on what the Professor had occupied himself with following his loss of his apprentice. Balthasar had given up on his attempts to document the long history the world, which had been his goal when Kerrenar had been his aide. According to the computer, he had turned instead to mastering Time, the field of his forgotten peer, Gaspar. Long ago, they had all lived together in paradise, but that time long was gone. Gaspar was not here, so Balthasar had ventured into his study of Time without Gaspar's assistance.  
  
Kerrenar read on, learning of the birth of his master's creation, the Wings of Time, which could actually move through time like raft upon a river. He learned, as well, of Balthasar's untimely death, his sanity and life strained to snapping by the weight of his work. It was a predictable event to befall the Guru of Reason, and Kerrenar felt no tears stain his face.  
  
He learned, then, of the coming of the heroes who took the Wings of Time and departed into the past, using it to complete their quest. It was this quest, it turned out, and not Balthasar's early studies, which had effected the healing of the world. How ironic.  
  
The data ended, apparently programmed to record no more after the Wings of Time left. The computer shut off, and the room darkened somewhat. Kerrenar had not noticed the effect of the added glow of the screen upon the room, but apparently there had been some. Another ironic effect of the human eye, never to notice something until it was gone.  
  
He felt strange. Not angry, exactly, but somehow frustrated. It seemed that all the action was over; his master and his work were each finished, and the heroes had gone off and finished their quest. He felt almost restless. What was there for him to do?  
  
Kerrenar turned and passed through another door, opposite the one from which he had entered, and found himself in what could only have been the hangar for the Wings of Time. The hangar was empty now, of course; the wandering heroes of the past had taken it. Kerrenar snorted in disgust. After all the work his master had put into it, all the work he would have put into it, had he been there, a handful of youths from across Time had shown up on a random day and made off with the greatest treasure conceivable.  
  
Kerrenar's gaze flitted around the room, settling on an unfamiliar shape in the far corner. Another computer, he realized, as he neared the device. Perhaps this was some personal record, a diary of sorts? He felt for the controls and activated the machine. It hummed to life, and a surprising line of text scrolled across the screen.  
  
A HISTORY OF THE TRAGIC KINGDOM OF ZEAL  
  
Kerrenar's heart skipped a beat. In all the years of his internment, his thoughts had settled surprisingly little on his former home. Only now did the memories come back in full. He pushed them aside, and pressed a button on the interface. The narration began. It illustrated the rise of the King and Queen of Zeal to power, and the King's sudden death, and the construction of the Ocean Palace. Kerrenar watched the screen as the Queen's magics failed and the Palace began to fall apart, as the heroes appeared and challenged the Queen and her creations, and as the portals had opened, sending the Gurus, including his own master, Balthasar, and the prince, Janus, into the distant future.  
  
Kerrenar's own memories bubbled up, them, intermingling with the records on the screen. How much he saw, then, and how much he remembered, he was not certain.  
  
He was running down the hallway of the Palace, his brown robes billowing around him, a symbol of his Earthbound status. He alone among his people, remembered, had been allowed to travel to the kingdom in the sky and study with the Gurus, a boon granted by the oldest Guru, Melchior, who felt fondly towards all the Earthbound. He was running though the Palace, that day, searching for Balthasar. His master had been summoned back out of exile by the other Gurus to protest the Queen's abuse of her powers, but explosions had shaken the Palace. Kerrenar was searching every hall, hoping to find his master, but every chamber was the same as the next.  
  
He had come upon the final hall, then, the Queen's Throne Room, but there chaos had reigned. There were huge, circular shapes everywhere, and through them he could see other times, other places. As he reached each one, however, they closed, sealing themselves from his touch.  
  
As he had neared the end of the hall, he had seen a figure huddled on the floor. He had recognized her immediately as Schala, the Queen's heir and daughter. Schala had always been kind to the Earthbound, particularly to Kerrenar, and he had been distraught to find her there, weeping, apparently injured.  
  
"Schala!" he had called to, and she had glanced up at him in surprise. "Where is everyone?" he had asked as he reached her. "Where is Balthasar?"  
  
"You should not be here," she had said, gritting her teeth as though focusing through great pain.  
  
"What happened?" he had asked her. "Are you alright?"  
  
"I am dying, and the Palace will be destroyed." She had looked around then, and if seeing something he could not, had continued, "There is no time for you to escape from here."  
  
"What about you?"  
  
"I will die, that much cannot be changed, but you…" she had trailed off, her voice weakened. She had looked at him then, with a smile. He recalled that smile warmly, as though she were there, then, in that far age, beaming at him. "I will open once more the gate through which your master went. You must follow him. I know not if the way is safe, but at least…" She had paused, swallowing. "At least there is hope."  
  
Her eyes had flashed, then, and one of the great circular shapes had widened again beside him. He had smiled back at her in silent thanks, not truly knowing what she had done or what he was about to do, and had taken a step into the shape.  
  
Long had he tumbled through the swirling gate, deposited at last, unconscious, at the feet of his master. That had been his first moment in this age of darkness and sadness, and when he had awoken they had begun their work.  
  
He shook his head, ending the memory. The computer's record had long finished. He stood there, staring at the blank screen and thinking. He turned suddenly, as though to leave, and tripped slightly over some object on the floor. After he recovered, he reached down to lift the thing to his face.  
  
He recognized it somewhat; one of the heroes had carried it in the first computer's recording. They presumably had dropped it here as they boarded the Wings of Time. He ran the computer's mention of the heroes through his mind again. They had come here from the past, the records had said, but that was before they had taken Balthasar's creation. They must have had some other means of traveling, he realized. He looked again at the object in his hand. It was cylindrical, perhaps the length of a dagger, with a star-shaped protrusion at its head. Perhaps this was some key to the heroes' miraculous appearance, and to where they had gone?  
  
Unbidden, the image of Schala returned to his mind, huddling and weeping on the Palace floor. He smiled, realizing what he would do.  
  
If this was indeed the key to the heroes' time travels, he would reason out how it worked, and use it. He would return to the moment when Schala had perished. And he would save her. He could see her, now, her face radiant, her arms encircling him as she kissed him gratefully. He would save her life and she would love him for it. She always had treated him well, hadn't she? Better than the other Enlightened Ones, the highborn who made up Zeal's populace? Perhaps she had always loved him. Perhaps that was why she had saved his life.  
  
Now it was time he returned the favor. He turned the object over again and again in his palm, envisioning his heroic rescue and her undying gratitude. She would love him as he fancied she always had. And he would at last be redeemed for the crimes which had left him chained beneath the earth. That was the reason he had been freed, he reasoned – to save the princess' life. Whatever gods lorded over the world had given him a second chance.  
  
And he would not fail them. 


	2. The Frog and the Magus

------------------------------------------ II. The Frog and the Magus  
  
Glenn paused beneath a tall and imposing oak, wiping his face with the edge of his cloak. The rain was coming harder and harder, and even his amphibian form had trouble withstanding the force of the water. Such a downpour had not come to the kingdom of Guardia in many years, and while Glenn supposed that the crops were thankful for the end of the long-lasting drought, the torrential storm was a deadly force of its own. Though the populace would not starve anymore, it was now likely they would all drown.  
  
The evening sky arced with lightning, illuminating the glade. The great forest had long been purported to be haunted, but Glenn knew such stories were folly and superstition. He was the only dark spirit that frequented the forest – at least, he long had been. In years past it had been the home of the legendary Frog King and his subjects; after Glenn had found himself in the body of a giant frog, he had chosen the locale as a fitting place to hide from the eyes of a kingdom he knew would call him 'monster'. After a time, he had built his reputation for heroism and valor to the point where he was a monster no more – and then a new monster had taken up residence in the wood.  
  
The Great Magus, as he had been known, was stuff of legend himself. Most knew him as a fearsome dark wizard who lorded over the army of magical creatures called Mystics. Many had lived through the Mystics' campaigns to conquer the land of Guardia, and many had heard tales of his cunning and power. Glenn, himself, had seen that power firsthand, first when he and his companion, Sir Cyrus, had fallen at Magus' hands, resulting in Cyrus' death and Glenn's transformation, and then again in the magical kingdom of Zeal in the far past, when Magus had become an unlikely ally and had even aided Glenn and his fellow heroes in saving the world. Magus, it turned out, was no more than the youth Janus, born of Zeal, who had been thrown into Time at a young age and then returned to undo the very evil he seemed to serve.  
  
Following those battles, Glenn and Magus had returned here, to the Middle Ages, as the other heroes called the period, to live out their lives in relative peace. The world had been saved, the past altered, and the future secured. There was nothing else remaining to be done – or was there?  
  
Glenn had not forgotten that it was Magus who was responsible for his transfiguration. While he had become accustomed to living as a human frog, and had even become quite a proficient warrior as he was, it was not the life he had wanted. Glenn had spared Magus' life twice now, and saved it from other threats countless times. It was time, he had decided, for Magus to pay him back.  
  
It was for that reason that Glenn had left the castle of King Guardia, where he was an honored guest, to return to his former home in the woods and seek Magus out. It was Glenn, after all, who had given Magus his old home in the wood, having no more need of it himself, so he knew where he could find the sorcerer. He would enter Magus' lair, and either plead or duel with the wizard until he restored the frog warrior to his rightful human form.  
  
There was a loud crack, and a jagged lightning struck the tree he had been sheltering under, jarring him from his thoughts. The frog warrior bounded backwards, out of harm's way, and back into the pounding rains. Setting his jaw in defiance, he closed his transparent inner eyelids to keep the water out. The ability was one of the few actual benefits of his form, allowing him to see without subjecting his eyes to irritating elements in the air – such as rain. He smiled as he realized that, if all went well, this would be one of the last times he used such abilities.  
  
He pulled his cloak around him and bolted through the trees. He knew the way by heart, having lived so long amidst the same trees, although the rainclouds, long unfamiliar, obscured the way slightly in shadows. It was no great matter, however, to seek out Magus' lair; even if Glenn had never entered the wood in his life, he doubted he could have missed the black stone spire which now rose directly out of the center of the forest, above the treeline. Magus' new tower had risen seemingly overnight, over the underground dwelling in which Glenn had lived. Most attributed its construction to magic, citing it as proof that the Great Magus had indeed returned. Glenn was one of the few who knew that the superstitious theory was actually truth, for once.  
  
A mist had set in among the trees with the opening of the clouds overhead, and even Glenn, with his formidable woodcraft, was finding it increasingly difficult to find his way. Trees that had been his only neighbors for the better part of a decade now looked foreign to him, each like the next. He wondered suddenly if he had made some wrong turn, whether he had gone past the tower on one side or another. The thought that he could have passed within yards of the place and never spied it through the mist was not a comforting one. He paused, his small, amphibian lungs out of breath.  
  
It was by sheer luck that at that moment he happened to look up and see the dark shape of a gargoyle staring down at him from a ledge above his head, which shortly disappeared into the mists itself. As his eyes moved over what he realized was the outer tower wall, more and more of the vague shapes appeared to him out of the mist. What he had nearly passed for simple forest shadows revealed themselves to be columns and walls, ledges and platforms. Sighing in relief, Glenn raised his face towards the distant spot above, where he could only assume that the top of the tower lay.  
  
"Magus!" he called up. "Magus, it is I, Glenn!" There was no response. He wondered what he had expected, and took a step towards the door.  
  
There was a flash of lightning, then, and in its illuminating flare he saw that the door at the base of the tower was ajar. He nevertheless placed his webbed hand over the knocker and smacked it several times over the wooden door; the sound echoed noisily off of the inside walls of the tower, but again there seemed no reply from within. After another moment's hesitation, Glenn proceeded through the open door and into the considerably drier interior.  
  
The tower, he could see now, was cylindrical, a spiral staircase taking up the bulk of its space. The steps wound about a central column, stretching high into the darkened ceiling. Near the ground, torches flickered in alcoves, but, gazing upwards, Glenn surmised that either the alcoves grew farther apart as the stairs went up, or a large number of the intermittent beacons had gone out since they'd been lit.  
  
"Magus?" he called again, with no more success than before. Shrugging, Glenn began to climb the stairs.  
  
Around and around he went, his green hands gripping the narrow rail with unease. Through narrow slits he could see the forest outside, and he quickly rose far above the level of the ground. He had never truly realized how high the trees stretched, for he remained for a long while beneath the level of the canopy. In time, however, he surpassed even that level, giving him wonder as to just how far the stairway wound. He paused, then, his lungs once more burning, and thought of calling out again. His lack of breath and previous lack of results stopped him, however, and after a moment he continued to climb.  
  
At long last, he reached a large, black door with a tiny red knob, into which a gold crest had been carved. Glenn recognized the crest immediately; it was the insignia of the ancient kingdom of Zeal, nearly 13,000 years old – a tribute to Magus' past. Glenn made a fist and knocked twice on the door. When once more there was no response, he turned the knob and the door swung wide, gasping as he took in the sight within.  
  
The room had obviously been a study, although it looked as though a hurricane had exploded within it. Books and papers, tomes of magic, covered the floor, and in one corner, the remains of a shattered cauldron sat, soaking in the reddish substance they had housed. A scratched crystal ball sat on the floor near Glenn's foot. Along the far wall, there was a small fireplace over which there sat a mantle, although it had fallen at one end, spilling off an elaborate array of candles and charms. Fortunately, the candles had promptly gone out, and the room had not caught fire.  
  
And in the center of the floor, apparently unconscious, lay Magus. His cape was bunched up around him, and at first glance, Glenn thought that it was soaked with blood. As he approached, however, and examined the body, he saw that it was merely the red liquid from the cauldron. From the looks of things, Magus had been in the midst of a massive incantation when whatever disaster that had befallen him had occurred.  
  
For a few moments, Glenn paused, unsure of what to do. Then, sighing, he took off his cloak and hung it from a hook beside the door, and hefted Magus' body in his arms. The wizard's chest was swelling and falling with the telltale winds of life, making it clear that whatever had happened to him had failed to finish him off. Glenn deposited the body of his legendary rival and unlikely ally in a small cot that had been set up on one side of the room, and then set about picking up the papers and other debris.  
  
When Magus came to, he could tell him all about what had happened, and then Glenn could make his request. He had certainly learned the virtue of patience in his adventures; countless times the urge to beg Magus to reverse his metamorphosis had weighed on his shoulders, and he had put it off, knowing that there were more important uses of the wizard's powers, such as fighting evil and saving the world. He could wait the hours until Magus recovered to ask what it was he had come to ask.  
  
And to fight the sorcerer again, if need be. 


End file.
